


Proxy

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Dream Sex, Finger Sucking, Gloves, Hand Jobs, Heavily Implied Wendigo Porn, Leather Kink, M/M, Post-Episode: s2e11 Ko No Mono, entire side plots are ignored, mild choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14369871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: I just really wanted to write about Will getting off on Hannibal's beautiful leather gloves. So now here we are.A post-Ko No Mono fic where Will tries to resolve the different sides he's seen of Hannibal into one man. Hannibal helps by gifting a pair of his gloves to Will. The results are... unexpected.Will darted forward and grasped his jaw, hard. Friction from his gloves - leather ones - dragged Hannibal’s skin taut. His fingers left bloodless white imprints. Will dragged them further across his jaw, up over his cheek, and watched a bright-red bloom flood back in his wake.Hannibal didn’t move; he met Will’s gaze as he always did - as an equal.Will moved closer still. With one hand, he slid thick-soft fingers into Hannibal’s mouth. With the other, he unzipped his fly.





	Proxy

**Author's Note:**

> A small warning: there are a couple of moments which could be perceived as dub-con - so take care. Also, kids? Breath play is not a good idea irl at all, no matter what you might see in porn, ‘kay? ~~This has been a PSA.~~
> 
> Thanks to my gf for beta <3

_**i.** _

Dinner at Hannibal’s again. Stepping over the threshold, Will even moved differently; a soft precision of manner was inescapable - he fell into it like a net. When he made his way into the dining room, the tempered notes of his footsteps echoed Hannibal’s just behind. 

He allowed himself to be seated. Hannibal, seemingly content, went to fetch the appetisers.

Alana had been there the night before. Covertly, Will had watched her arrive and not depart again. He pictured her sitting opposite - hair loose around her shoulders, smile easy, a tasteful glint of gold at her ears. There would be candlelight, of course.

And Hannibal: gracious, gentlemanly, just the right side of flirtatious. What would she think of the Hannibal who served endangered birds drowned alive in Armagnac and spoke so intimately about killing? In her eyes Hannibal had no need to hide his face from God, even at the dinner table. But did she ever wonder, just a little, at each first morsel of meat?

Hannibal entered with two covered plates. “Something more pedestrian than our last meal,” he said. “But just as worth eating, I hope. Cajun fried frogs’ legs, sprinkled with pistachio dust.”

Will smiled. “Not every mouthful can be equal in experience.” His toast - just a briefly raised glass - was both genuine and warm.

They ate in companionable silence. Hannibal watched Will’s every bite with quiet satisfaction. 

The lure was working. Will knew he should feel triumph - Hannibal would finally be caught, and by Will’s hand. Justice would be served and retribution a sweet reward. But something was wrong; his anger had not been channelled and contained. It coursed through him, tainted with regret and things still unnameable. 

What he’d promised Jack would not be enough. 

*

His dreams felt invaded, as though they were dreamed by someone else. Will struggled nightly to wrestle them into shapes of his own choosing. Always there was blood, death, violence; always Hannibal.

The creature appeared frequently - the Wendigo. It spoke to him wordlessly; yearned at him and caused an echo of yearning in return. Will hated it. He wanted to be its end. He wanted for it to speak, so he could rail and rage and finally conquer it. But it only watched him with a mute stare, insistent in its silence. 

That night it waited for him on the porch. The dogs whined and circled uneasily, but when the door opened they flocked to it, tails wagging. The creature ignored them; it only had eyes for Will. 

It waited. For a long time it waited. In the unreal dream-time unknown stretches of emptiness ached around them, unbroken. For the spell to break, Will knew he must act.

His dogs had settled to sleep at its feet. He went outside, into the perpetual night, and stood before it. The creature moved only fractionally, even when Will reached out and touched the spot where its heart would be - if it had one. Its hide was cool and smooth, textured like fine leather.

Time splintered like falling leaves. The creature’s hard fingers encircled his wrist, and held him there. With the other hand, it drew out a knife.

*

On paper Hannibal had so far said nothing at all; his cautious sense of delicacy forbade it. Their conversations acted like mirrors, each reflecting what the other needed to see - silvery pools of mercury, poisonous and fascinating. Easy to fall into and drown. If Will were to succeed he needed to delve deeper, work harder. He deserved more, much more, from Hannibal Lecter.

His standing appointment remained and Will turned up punctually, even on nights when his name was not inked into Hannibal’s diary. He roamed the edges of the room, looking at Hannibal’s pictures, his carefully displayed objects.

Will paused in front of the bronze stag. “I remember,” he said, “when I first worked out I could wear someone else’s skin - just for a little while, just to get through the day. To fit in, make things easier.” He took a sip of wine. It was heavy, full-bodied, and rolled over his tongue like blood. “Later, when I was older - in high school - I found one which fit and I didn’t take it off again.”

“We take inspiration from those around us and use them as our guides,” said Hannibal, from the desk by the fire. His pencil moved in soft, definite strokes. “Whose was it? Were you conscious of taking it?”

“There was a man - an old man, he seemed to me at the time. His yard butted up against the schoolyard but no one ever asked for their ball back. He was mostly polite but we were all afraid of him. Everyone left him alone.”

The pencil stopped moving. Will turned and observed Hannibal’s curiosity, part-shadowed by the dim light. 

“You took inspiration from your own fear,” commented Hannibal.

Will shrugged and moved closer, drawn to rouse the dying fire. “We moved away a few weeks after and I just… didn’t bother to conceal any sharp edges. I didn’t use them much, but there they were. Visible.”

“A defensive trait,” said Hannibal, smiling a little. “Like the spines on a cactus.”

Will returned his smile. “The prickliest,” he said. “Have you been conscious of taking inspiration?”

Hannibal went back to his sketch. “No,” he said at length. “I was formed early and in a short space of time. Any inspiration came after the fact.”

“I have the sense you were smoothed,” Will said. “Polished and refined; concealing a dense and intricate core.”

“Have you not also undergone a process of refinement and concealment?” Hannibal asked.

Will experienced a moment of doubt - a simple thrill of _does he know?_ skidded down his spine. Too long a pause might give away his alarm, but Hannibal broke it before Will could speak again.

“Of course,” Hannibal said. “Everyone has concealments. Everyone refines.” 

“Everyone has different experiences of us,” Will replied. “We show them different sides. Some we handle with kid gloves, some with an iron grip. For instance-” he paused and then plunged on- “Alana has never seen your sharper, more interesting, edges.”

Hannibal gave a slight frown; Will detected some surprise. They discussed her little.

“And ideally, she never will,” Hannibal answered, after only the merest pause. “It will be simpler that way.”

Will didn’t reply, overtaken by a sudden and surprising bitterness. How comfortable ignorance must be, sometimes. And how protected Alana would be - right up until the exact moment when she wasn’t.

Hannibal gazed frankly at Will’s profile. “Is it for her sake you are concerned, or your own?” he asked. “Surely you would prefer her to be handled with care?”

Will unstuck his throat. “I would like Alana to remain unharmed,” he said, as carefully as he could.

“Then,” Hannibal concluded, turning once more back to his sketch, “perhaps you resent not being given the same treatment. _Kid gloves_ , as you put it.”

Will smirked. “Oh no,” he said, “you always took care to wear gloves. I recovered those memories - with a little help from Chilton. And besides, I’d rather know the truth than be deceived again. I would rather be acquainted with each and every one of your sharp edges.”

There was a long pause; the fire crackled, the shadows gathered.

“A brush with truth is always ennobling,” Hannibal said. “However bitter the experience might be.” 

*

Will left late that evening. The room glowed with seductive warmth, and the dying embers drew the darkness closer. Despite himself, despite everything, Will had been at ease.

At the threshold, Hannibal gave him something - a pair of leather gloves. 

“They are not kid,” Hannibal had said, almost regretfully. “But maybe they will help you transform your experience into something entirely new.”

_**ii.** _

Though not old, the gloves were well-worn, retaining the shape of the wearer’s hands. They lay on Will’s bed, their silent challenge inescapable.

The most obvious thing - the outright invitation, in fact - would be to put them on. Would it please Hannibal for Will to wear them to crime scenes, or in conversation with Jack? Standing over a not-so-fresh corpse while full of his own illicit knowledge of killing? 

He picked them up. They were just a pair of gloves - expensive, yet ordinary. Black leather, finely stitched, well-insulated for cold winters. He’d seen Hannibal in them, or a pair just like, many times. A personal object - the everyday kind which collects meaning simply by persistent closeness to its owner. Will had studied countless such objects; had leafed through killers’ and victims’ belongings alike. Their clothing, the mundanity of their lives. Anything to help him get closer.

It would be the most natural thing to try them on, yet Will stalled. He thought of _The Hands of Orlac_ and felt ridiculous. He thought of his dreams of the Wendigo, with its bony long-fingered hands, and felt less so.

To spite both himself and his imagination, he pulled them on.

They must have been the same size, more-or-less: the gloves fit fine, perhaps a little narrower in the fingers than his own gloves. He made a fist and watched the leather stretch across the back of his hand. Then he held it palm-up in front of his face. His wrist looked very pale below the dark line of the cuff. Above it was his hand, cloaked in Hannibal’s skin.

Just a proxy, Will thought. A masquerade; nothing more.

He threw them off, and went to bed. 

*

His dreams ran a familiar course. Hannibal bound tight to the tree, stark in his black coat and gloves, his expression one of calm. The rope strained; behind Will the stag quivered to do his command.

Hannibal spoke, and spoke some more - always calm, always persuasive. He would not give Will what he wanted. He would forever turn around Will’s desires so they served his own. Should Will give him his own death, even - especially one by Will’s own hands - it would only be the admission he so constantly sought. Perhaps the ultimate admission either one of them could make.

There was nowhere else to go, thought Will. No winner to be found here. He felt oddly empty.

He blinked and the stag was gone. So was Hannibal.

No, wait- Will dropped his eyes to the leaf-littered floor. There he was - on his knees, still tied around his chest to the tree. Arms fastened behind his back, face upturned and serene.

Will darted forward and grasped his jaw, hard. Friction from his gloves - leather ones - dragged Hannibal’s skin taut. His fingers left bloodless white imprints. Will dragged them further across his jaw, up over his cheek, and watched a bright-red bloom flood back in his wake.

Hannibal didn’t move; he met Will’s gaze as he always did - as an equal. 

Will moved closer still. With one hand, he slid thick-soft fingers into Hannibal’s mouth. With the other, he unzipped his fly.

*

Will shocked awake, chasing his fast-heaving breath. He shoved off the blankets and sat up. He couldn’t breathe; couldn’t pull enough air inside him to- 

_Fuck._ His mind spiralled on with his dream, filling in the blanks and the parts yet undreamed. There was no stopping his pin-sharp imagination; no taking back the image of Hannibal on his knees, lips fastened tight around a leather-gloved knuckle. Spit darkening it, slowly soaking through; a faint sensation of damp warmth penetrating the glove. And then later, spatters of semen, glistening and pearly, striking both dark leather and the reddened glow of Hannibal’s skin.

His feet found the floor and let him stumble to the bathroom; his cock, trapped awkwardly in his briefs, was a conspicuous bumping weight. The light, when he clicked it on, was too bright and the mirror loomed, shockingly large and confrontational. Will avoided it studiously. Instead, he bent over the sink, gripping its edges, and tried to think clearly. 

He should ignore this - just turn his face away, go make coffee, and let himself forget. His arousal was inconsequential; it would pass.

But he knew the dream - his thoughts - would recur. Images and imagined sensations crowded the edges of his mind, not so easily dismissed. Later, he knew, he’d be able to rationalise. It was a common reaction to fantasise about taking power back, part of processing his grief and betrayal, his victimhood.

He didn’t need to forget, though. He needed an exorcism.

Will scrubbed his eyes and sighed. A part of him relented; just peeled off and floated away. He grabbed a wad of tissue and jerked off mechanically over the toilet, mind blank and determinedly still. 

*

The next time Will was due to see Hannibal he forced himself to wear the gloves. There were Hannibal’s expectations to consider. It would be strange if Will didn’t demonstrate his gift had been appreciated, at least once.

Jack had called them in with a weak excuse - something about wanting to discuss details of Freddie Lounds’ murder. He was getting impatient; if he was even a fraction less careful Hannibal would notice the procedural irregularity. But, luckily for Jack, these meetings flattered Hannibal’s vanity as much as they eased Jack’s frustration.

It helped that Jack was very convincing. He made every show of finding their discussion useful - probably because he always had. Will listened to him thanking them for coming and thought about how much his past success had been aided by Hannibal. And how, even knowing Hannibal’s true nature, Jack still saw how well their minds fit.

Leaving aside the possibility of an afterwards, Will would never shake that off. Especially not from himself - it was confirmation of what he’d always feared most.

They left together, Jack walking them cordially out of his office. If he tried hard, Will could almost pretend the facade was real - just three friends saying goodbye. No deception and no betrayal waiting on the other side of the door.

He pulled on his new gloves as they crossed the parking lot. Hannibal noticed, with a small appreciative glance.

“They suit you,” was all he said before they parted.

*

As predicted, Will’s dreams continued to haunt him. He was used to pushing away unwanted mental images but these had a persistence and clarity which was unusual even for him. The Wendigo stalked him ever closer, and Will was curious enough to let it. It kept the knife in its hand but the other- 

If he closed his eyes, even when awake, he could feel its spindly raw-boned fingers upon him. They crept over his skin with a tentative, exploratory touch. Will lay still and let it happen. If he moved - opened his eyes - he would find nothing there. He had to know what it wanted, how close it would come; what it would do when it got there.

He wanted to know its truth.

He wanted to know his own truth, too. His intentions were becoming obscured, difficult to hold on to. His sense of justice, even of revenge, was warped. Will understood his craving to make Hannibal suffer; to make him admit his nature, and what he’d caused Will. It made sense. But something slippery and undeniable was invading unexpected parts of him; there were other things he craved.

And through them he’d realised: there might be an action he could take which wouldn’t cost him more than Hannibal would lose. An admission where he won, for once.

The gloves remained shut in a drawer; their memory was enough. He thought of butter-soft leather, warming slowly on skin. He thought of rough thick fingers grasping and caressing. He thought of Hannibal’s beatific face, raised to God - there would be no hiding here, either.

In his fantasies, Hannibal didn’t touch him, not once. But no one had ever been closer. They had never been closer.

_**iii.** _

It was raining hard outside. Will stood in the gloom by the windows, sipping his wine. Behind him, Hannibal said, “You brought them back.” Probably he thought it rude.

“I brought them back,” Will confirmed. 

He turned around - Hannibal was still holding the gloves. Firelight flickered across his face, revealing the devil-creature beneath - his mask stripped away by shadows, giving glimpses of something hollow-eyed and hungry.

“You suggested they might transform my experience of truth,” Will said. “They did. They still are.”

Hannibal’s eyes rested momentarily on Will. Then he straightened and went to sit in one of the chairs, as if Will were merely a patient.

Will followed his lead, and took the seat opposite.

“The transformation is ongoing,” Hannibal said, smoothing out invisible creases in his pants. “Are you here to complete it?”

A beat passed. For once, just for a small moment, Will enjoyed the sensation of having the upper hand. He leant back comfortably.

“I’m not sure if it will be a transformation or an exorcism,” he replied. “I’m guess I’m here to find out which.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirked. “Sounds like catharsis, either way,” he said. “You promised a reckoning. Is it time?”

“Recently I’ve found myself following a different train of thought,” Will said. “I want to see where it leads.”

“Maybe to a new chapter in our relationship,” Hannibal said.

“To a different kind of intimacy,” agreed Will. 

“Intimacy is something I believe we already possess. But it’s something we might possess more of, perhaps, in the future,” said Hannibal. “Has the future arrived already, Will?”

Will smiled, slowly. “Not yet,” he said. 

Hannibal blinked. His face showed understanding. “A go-between is required.”

“A proxy,” Will said. 

The gloves lay on Hannibal’s desk. Will fetched them, slipping them on as he walked back to Hannibal’s chair. “My dreams have been invaded with the scents and textures of leather,” he said. “I’ve found the concept of a second skin... useful.”

Hannibal watched enthralled. “Your own or someone else's?”

“Both,” Will said, and brushed Hannibal’s sleeve with the tip of one finger. Then he froze. “I need you to understand,” he said, strangely choked.

Hannibal looked at Will’s gloved hands. “You need inspiration.” He took hold of one hand and placed it on his cheek. “Something to convince you to traverse the last barrier.”

Will snapped into action, gripping the underneath of Hannibal’s jaw and forcing two fingers between his lips. “I would prefer you left the talking to me,” he said. “Assuming that's okay with _you,_ Doctor?”

Hannibal, eyes raised, looked as beatific as he appeared in Will's fantasies. Slowly, he slid his mouth further down Will's fingers. Will watched his lips enveloping the black leather, aware all the time of veiled threat of his teeth. He shuddered, and knew it for desire. A warm steady pressure flowed along his fingers. Even beneath the gloves it felt like a caress: Hannibal’s tongue.

“What do you want?” Hannibal asked, pulling back. His lips shone wetly. His rough tone suggested Will could have it, whatever it was.

Will took off his other glove and held it out. “Touch me,” he said.

*

Long dark fingers stood out vividly against Hannibal’s skin, even in the gloom. The sheen of hide and the sheen of sweat merged; luxuriant leather caught strands of Hannibal’s hair and creaked beneath Will’s knees. The same textures pervaded the room - the only difference was one of dark or light. 

Will squeezed lightly; his thumb and forefinger pressed at Hannibal’s carotids. Hannibal sighed and rocked his hips against Will’s kneeling weight. A thumb-tip grazed Will’s cockhead; it was cold against his flesh, and slippery with pre-come.

Will thrust up into Hannibal’s leather-clad fist, and pinned him back against the chair by his neck. “I imagine you think you can choose your responses,” he panted. 

His knees dug into the chair; next to them the heat of Hannibal’s thighs burned. Both were still clothed; the air between them was suffused with damp heavy breathing.

“How and where and with whom,” Will said. Hannibal didn’t respond, but his eyes were fixed on Will’s. “Everyone gets to see a side,” Will continued. “The side you choose.”

He squeezed again, this time pressing across Hannibal’s windpipe. His intake of breath was audibly cut short and the brief, struggling reflex, deep in Hannibal’s chest, was gratifying. Even the deliberate stillness which followed, as Hannibal regained his control, felt good. He was complicit in Will’s actions - he wanted to see where this would go as much as Will, if not more. He watched Will intently - Will felt him searching his mind; the two of them joining, becoming, somewhere in its recesses. 

“Not with me,” said Will. “Not anymore.”

Will released him with a gasp. His arms ached. Hannibal’s breath stuttered back into action. Will watched him resist coughing, massage his throat, and finally swallow. His neck was livid; it would bruise nicely. 

Will bent his head until they were nose-to-nose. “I want to see everything,” he hissed.

Hannibal’s breath stuttered again. He nodded, once. Will pressed their foreheads together, fucked upward into Hannibal’s loose grip. His fist tightened immediately, almost obedient. Will rode him like that, panting harsh and hot over Hannibal’s lips. Then he pushed his gloved fingers back inside Hannibal’s mouth and watched Hannibal suck them down, throat working.

He came with a grunt, over Hannibal's gloves, staining his waistcoat.

*

Afterwards, they sought the light and warmth of the fire - Will leant against the mantel, clutching a glass of brandy. Hannibal sat behind, tie still slightly askew and hair shaken loose from its pomade. Will swung round and stared openly at his appearance.

He took a long gulp of brandy. “I like you better this way,” he said. “You look more human.”

Hannibal was gazing into the fire, but tilted his face towards the sound of Will’s voice. “Was it ever in doubt?”

“I’ve had every reason to doubt,” Will answered, harshly. “You know that.”

Hannibal snapped his gaze to Will. He didn’t appear angry but his eyes were wide.

“Are you afraid of me, Doctor?” Will asked, surprised. He took a step closer. “Just a little?”

Hannibal swallowed, and delayed speaking for a moment. But when he did, he sounded just the same as usual. “I am afraid of my feelings for you,” he said. “They are not what I expected them to be. They are… unpredictable.”

“Then that makes two of us,” said Will, draining his glass.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Hannibal asked. “What lies at the end of this path, Will?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “But, whatever it is, it’s not sustainable. We’re going to get caught.”

Hannibal nodded slowly. “Jack Crawford already suspects you killed Freddie Lounds.” 

“If Jack told you he suspects me, it means he suspects you,” Will said. 

“I know.” 

Will looked at the ceiling and considered their options. “I’m already caught,” he said. “We all are.” He sat beside Hannibal and stretched out his legs towards the fire’s warmth. “You better keep the gloves. I don’t need them anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find [this fic post here on my tumblr](https://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/173103258062/proxy-weconqueratdawn-hannibal-tv-archive) \- reblogs are clutched to my heart like diamonds :)
> 
>  ~~[Here I am on tumblr.](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com)~~ I’ve left tumblr due to their policy update of December 2018 and now you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/weconqueratdawn), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/weconqueratdawn) and [dreamwidth](https://weconqueratdawn.dreamwidth.org/).


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